


foundation of trust

by emmyeccentric



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, bedelia has a colt .38 special, murder couple tho, season 3 teaser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmyeccentric/pseuds/emmyeccentric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She purses her swollen lips. “Give my best regards to Will Graham,” she mutters, and takes off down the stairs to the lobby as quickly and as clandestinely as possible, glancing behind her whenever she feels a chill on her bare shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	foundation of trust

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this, and I played around with 3rd Multiple POV. I hope it doesn't suck.

“I pray of you, please tell me you had nothing to do with this.” Hannibal grinds his razor sharp teeth in the shadows of the dark office.

“I don’t have any idea what you speak of, Hannibal.” The man before her reaches into his tuxedo jacket pocket, coiffed hair falling loose. He hands her a meticulously folded sheet of paper.

It’s Blake’s _Christ Trampling of Satan_ , desecrated by cheap printer ink. Scrawled in pencil in the bottom corner are two initials. W.G.

Bedelia’s eyes grow wide. “Where did you find this?”

“Taped to the office door before the presentation. He could still be somewhere in the archives.” He surges forward, thick hand wrapping around Bedelia’s throat. “I have grown to believe there was a foundation of trust in this arrangement. It would be a very poor decision to betray that trust, Dr. Du Maurier, dear _wife_.”

“It would be equally unwise to not remove your hand,” she rasps out. 

Hannibal tightens his grip, and Bedelia begins to stutter. “For what reason?” he pries, claws and fangs on full display, person suit ruined.

“He – he would kill,” she spits. Hannibal loosens his grip, calloused fingertips still grazing her neck. “He would kill the both of us,” she gasps, “And the foundation of this arrangement is mere self-preservation. I trust you as much as you trust me, Hannibal.” Suddenly, she slaps him, using her nails to their full purpose. “If you accuse me of putting us in danger again--- if you threaten my life, I will be the only one you have to fear.” He dabs his fingers at the decently sized scratch on his left cheekbone. 

“Fine. Go to the villa, _le plus vite possible_. Lock the doors; get your weapons.” He pounces, threading her silky curls tightly in his fingers, and collides his lips to hers with all the urgency he finds the situation demands.

She purses her swollen lips. “Give my best regards to Will Graham,” she mutters, and takes off down the stairs to the lobby as quickly and as clandestinely as possible, glancing behind her whenever she feels a chill on her bare shoulder. 

Later, she sits in the armchair in the lounge of their villa, fingers switching between the cool silk of her chemise, the cool silk damask upholstery of her seat, and the even cooler barrel of her vintage Diamondback, inherited from her father. In the past several weeks, it’s finally found a purpose. She didn’t take off her stockings when she changed; she didn’t want to forego the small dagger she keeps in her garter (when she wears one).  

She hears fumbling at the door, and it's a microsecond before the gun cocks and faces its future target.

“It's only me,” her pseudo-husband’s face is illuminated by the lavender moonlight. The only souvenir of his formal wear is a crumpled suit-shirt with jeans, layered under his black motorcycle jacket, what he usually wears when he hunts. She's grown surprisingly fond of the distressed leather, and familiar of its scent when it's mixed with her perfume. She lays her revolver on the side-table next to the armchair, next to a small glass sticky with residue of the port she had earlier that evening.

“How is Will Graham?” she drawls.

“On the move,” he states, calmly per usual. “But even if Will is many things, he is not impulsive, fortunately.”

“Fortunately,” she parrots, brow quirked.

“Whatever he’s planning, he’s doing just that, and it will take time.”

“I think I would like a cocktail. Would you care for one?” Bedelia sighs. She makes her way to the bar cabinet on the right wall.

 “Please.”

She douses two glasses of ice with a generous helping of Amaretto, two maraschino cherries in hers. Hannibal would choke on something that chemically saccharine.

She doesn’t see him behind her, closing the distance between them. She shudders when he pushes the soft hair off her shoulder and kisses her neck, wrapping his thick arms around her tiny waist.

“I followed him down to the catacombs. He said he ‘forgave’ my actions,” he looks at the ceiling, “But there was definite vengeance in his voice.”

Bedelia smirks where he cannot see. “Don’t tell me you’re _afraid_ , Dr. Lecter.” She turns and offers him his drink.

“You know better than that, Bedelia.”

“Ah, _disappointed_ then,” she settles back in the armchair, crossing her legs chastely at the ankles, despite the flimsy chemise and open sheer robe she wears. “There is still a part of you in love with Will Graham, despite your schoolboy intentions to completely ruin him.”

Hannibal scowls. “You know what my intentions with Will Graham were.”

“I knew what you _told_ yourself your intentions with Will Graham were. I was a player on that stage, if you recall. And I know of your ‘intentions’ with Alana Bloom, Abigail Hobbes; the entire FBI clade.”

“I told you not to speak of Abigail,” he swallows, expression never twisting into one of anger. “I told you to flee with me, I _pleaded_ you to come with me because I’ve known from the beginning. We are of like minds.”

She bites a cherry off its stem, and plops the stem in her near-empty glass. “You and Will Graham were of like minds; how do I know you’re not planning _my_ demise, Hannibal?”

“Because Will Graham is currently pulsing with an entire cocktail of catecholamine hormones, racing around the streets of Florence. He seems well, if simply homicidal. And both you and I know, your and Will Graham’s inclinations are rather similar in that regard.”

Bedelia grins sinfully and places her second cherry between keen-edged teeth. She applies just enough pressure to split the soft red flesh, brightly staining her lips and tongue with juice.

She’s irresistible and bloodthirsty, and Hannibal can’t think of a more thrilling combination.

Hannibal sets his drink on the other small table at the head the chaise, motioning for her to stand. He relaxes into the armchair, grabbing her thin fingers and pulling her to him so she sits facing him atop his lap.

Their kiss is slow but still tinged with a tiny bit of desperation. His tongue easily strokes hers and she nibbles on his bottom lip. She pulls away suddenly, and Hannibal sees her with a new expression: sopping doe eyes and a doll-like pout, looking very much like the freckled little girl he has imagined running through apple orchards and flying kites in Provence.

“How much time do we have?” she shatters for only a moment, and fights her breaking voice.

He places tentative fingers on the barrel of her revolver, and uses his other hand to lightly tickle the flesh underneath the sheathed knife resting against her thigh. “All of it. And soon we may be privy to our own feast.” She smiles then, a genuine _warm_ smile that he has only seen in their most intimate moments.

“All that red meat,” she leans to mouth and nibble at his neck, “is bad for the cholesterol,” she sighs.

“All in moderation, Dr. Du Maurier.”

Her nails begin to bite into his chest as she kisses him this time. He wonders if when they walk down the city streets, people can see past her glacial exterior into the violent Vesuvius simmering underneath. He would hope not.

“When we end him, we do it together,” she whispers, nipping at his earlobe. He’s taken by the sensation.

Bedelia begins to trail eager hands over the noticeable ridge in his jeans, reveling in the way his breathing becomes coarse, the way his eyes flutter close. Control makes her blood race and her head fizz, whether it’s over the ebbing line between life and death, or over the beast she’s currently faking a marriage with.

In the hours prior, even though she was waiting on a deranged Will Graham she expected her former patient to arrive deliciously blood-spattered, hair ruffled, fueled by adrenaline. Even in this moment, when a mixture of vengeance and passion for another man fuels him, her body begins to flush. She knows his shallow fixation with Will Graham is fleeting, but she also knows similar worldviews and similar hobbies as esoteric as theirs forge a much thicker tether.

His pants are unbuttoned as he palms her breasts and places tempting little nips along her clavicle. Her gaze fixes on the bruise beginning to blossom on his cheek.

“Do you trust me?” she exhales.

“No,” he says quite succinctly, before pulling down the strap of her nightgown to suckle and lick at her breasts. She tosses her head back as heat begins to build in her core.

She will never trust him. And he will never trust her. But if the nature of their pairing is grounded in acknowledgement of those inescapable facts, it’s better than what any wavering and minute amount of trust could offer them.

He reaches between her thighs to remove her armored lingerie, tapping her thigh gently, urging her to lift her leg.

She does, and offers him a peek of tantalizing pink and glistening flesh. The scent of her makes his mouth water. “Stockings, garter, but no underthings? Quite the decorum you have, Doctor.”

“You’re very tempting when you come home with another man’s blood on your hands.” He slides two long fingers through her slick cunt, and she can’t help the moan that bubbles from her lips.

Remembering the precautionary task at hand, he loops the same fingers under her garter and begins to drag it down. “I never got to do this at the wedding,” he smiles.

“I think the judge would have found it very inappropriate and rude. I know how you feel about vulgarity.” She kisses him as he balls up the scrap of fabric in his hand, placing the knife aside.

He strokes her again and she whimpers, hands stuttering as she goes to grab his cock, running her hands over the velvety skin, spreading the moisture gathered at the tip. His calloused thumb rubs sharp circles over her clit, as his fingers delve inside her at the angle that makes her come apart. Her staccato moans echo in the dark lounge before she scrapes her nails down his hipbones, dragging his jeans down far enough so she can lower herself onto him.

Hannibal grabs her hips as she begins to flow over him, her movements deep and slow.

“Touch me,” Bedelia whimpers. He would be a fool to deny her request, quickly moving to rub the swollen bud between her legs. The friction is glorious, but she begs for more as the ache resonating within her begins to peak.

“I know, _mieloji_ ,” he whispers, planting a kiss to her temple. She’s close as her moans and yelps begin to crescendo. He thrusts into her, hitting the spot that sends Bedelia past her breaking point.

Her neurons are sent into overdrive, igniting and sparking down her every limb. The stars in her eyes slowly fade as she moves Hannibal’s hair from his eyes; lightly the kissing the wound that was of her doing. His hips falter and his movements turn erratic; he soon groans out his own orgasm.

She rights her chemise and finally lifts herself off of his lap with wobbling limbs, and helps him straighten his clothes as well.

She clears her throat and grabs her gun, along with a gilded box that sits in the armoire on the back wall.

“Are you going to bed?”

“No,” she states tersely, making her way to their adjoining dining room, “we have work to do, plans to make.”

He sits across from her at their large table while she cleans her Diamondback, discussing precautions and strategies for their latest quarry into the wee hours of the morning.

 


End file.
